


Afternoon waltzes

by Phileas



Series: French cuisine [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, allusion to murder, and cheese, religious music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phileas/pseuds/Phileas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which we learn a great deal about a lot of people.<br/>In which there is a loving understanding.<br/>In which afternoons are incredibly eventful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The boy witch

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter include some religious singing.  
> Gregorio Allegri's Miserere to be precise, that you can listen to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eh31j6L95Ok  
> I also give you a link to a magnificent piece of Faure, a Pie Jesus sang by the most exquisite French Counter-tenor Philippe Jaroussky, so you can familiarise yourself with the voice range. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xTf14maKtT8  
> More counter-tenor music links at the end, if you liked it!
> 
> Again, I'm not a native english-speaker, I'm sorry if there is any mistakes.  
> __________________

 

“- Do you hate Courfeyrac?” Jehan asked, his lithe hands on Montparnasse's shoulders.

“- I do indeed.” was the simple answer he received. Jehan hummed and sighed. He kissed the top of Parnasse's head.

“- I have an other march tomorrow.” Montparnasse groaned in displeasure and Jehan smiled softly.

“- I know... But this one is more formal than the last one.” He kissed his cheek. “We're marching with hospital staff, teachers and the post workers, among others. And then there is a big concert on the place de la Bastille. It's all very official.

\- Enjolras must hate it.

\- Ha well...” Jehan smiled.

 

* * *

 

“- Do you hate Montparnasse?”

Courfeyrac looked up at Jehan, standing in the kitchen, busying himself with a glass of white wine.

“- Well... He's not... I mean... Is this a trick question?”

Jehan looked at him with a very blank face and sipped a bit of wine. Courfeyrac opened his mouth and stayed like that for a moment before answering softly.

“- He's slightly scary and I think he doesn't like me very much... He makes me uncomfortable and I would rather not find myself at night in a dark alley with him...”

Jehan nodded, thoughtful and smiled at last. He made his way to Courfeyrac and kissed his temple and eyelid.

 

Later this afternoon, Jehan could still feel it.

The burning heaviness of Courfeyrac's sex on his tongue, the trembling brush of his fingers on his eyelids, on his cheeks. Jehan shivered in the most delighted fashion and closed his eyes, his own fingers tracing the earlier path of the other man's hands on his face.

He took a deep breath and stretched on the sofa, his arms above his head. Mellowing out against the cushion, he opened his eyes and smiled, blushing at the ceiling.

 

* * *

 

It was a late Wednesday afternoon. 

Jehan did not say a single word for a good half hour, and Montparnasse did not prompt him. He filled the void by getting his blood soaked button up shirt off and washing his hands. He put his folded knives on the worktable and disposed of his shirt with some alcohol and a match. He seemed uncharacteristically aloof and cold and Jehan would not stop following him with soft eyes. The tall man was the one who broke the silence.

“- Do you still love me, bird?

\- Yes.”

 

Montparnasse breathed more easily while putting on unsullied clothes. He turned to Jehan and knelt in front of the chair the poet was sitting on. Jehan unfolded his hands, palm up, on his knees and Parnasse slowly covered them with his own. They looked at each-other for a moment and Jehan finally kissed the man's eyelids and cheeks.

“- I could never stop loving you. There is seldom you could do to make me stop.”

 

The tone was gentle and very sad, as if Jehan was aware that the blood on his knives had been violently spilled. Parnasse closed his eyes and the kiss upon his lips felt like absolution.

 

* * *

 

Jehan stared at Grantaire's identity card and stared some more, mouth slightly opened. His forehead wrinkled.

“- I think... How do you pronounce that? I think it's harder than Parnasse's name...”

Courfeyrac and Joly looked above his shoulders.

“- Mulan?

\- Meuh-lan?

\- Meuh-leun?”

They looked at each-other, half laughing, when Grantaire came back for the kitchen and angrily snatched the card back.

“- It's pronounced “ _Mélènn”_ , arseholes. How did you get that? It's private.

\- Why did you never gave us your name before? Even on the lease, you just signed with your family name.

\- Because it's private and no-one can pronounce it anyway.”

 

Combeferre, sitting near Enjolras who was already watching them, looked up from his book,

“- It doesn't sound very southern...

\- My grand parents are Britons.” grumbled Grantaire while putting his ID back in his wallet.

“ - So...” Asked Enjolras. “What does it means?”

 

Everyone looked at Grantaire, who smiled and shrugged, dismissively.

“- Nothing relevant, trust me.” He gave a last warning look at Jehan, Courfeyrac and Joly and went back to the kitchen.

 

A minutes later, Bahorel on his laptop snorted and smiled broadly.

“- Melen. It's celt, it means “golden” or “yellow like honey”. So fitting.”

 

Grantaire immediately appeared in the embrasure of the door, red-faced.

“- NOM DE DIEU, BAHOREL!”

 

* * *

Sunday.

 

“- I would paint you in golds, and reds.” Jehan whispered in the hollow of his neck. The slight humidity of his breath was scorching against his skin. A sigh. “I would read the lines of your skin inside-out, and crown you with rubies and iron. I would mark your face with sigils of power, mark your back with words of strength, your feet blackened by the runes of victory.”

Montparnasse couldn't look away from the naked witch above him. His words of poetry like so much incantations and spells, boiling hot in his stomach, burning in his veins. As Jehan straightened himself, Montparnasse slid his hands to the boy's tights and exhaled in lost rapture.

Jehan would roll his hips and moan in this secret way Montparnasse worshipped, his hands filled to the brim with the sacred flesh of his personal god. He could feel Jehan's hands, ardent against his ribs, bracing himself against Parnasse to allow for more ample thrusts, words still spilling from his pink tongue and lips.

“- You are my king, my king...”

Montparnasse put his hands more firmly on Jehan's hips and thrust upward, burying himself in his pagan divinity. The witching words dissolved into prayers and exquisite sobs.

“- You would eat me whole and I would live in you forever. Wouldn't you, wouldn't you?

\- Yes! Yes... Everything for you. I would keep you inside me, warm inside my bloodied heart. Jehan...”

His boy was flushed red in exertion and timidity, and Parnasse slowly dragged his hands on the blushing skin of his torso, closing so softly around Jehan's throat as their movements became more desperate. Parnasse's hands tightened gently around the curves of his body, around his throat, against the flesh of his sex and Jehan uttered a cry of ecstatic pleasure as he came. Parnasse bit his lips, his eyes never leaving Jehan and his thumb lost itself against the poet's lips. Jehan opened his carmine mouth and swallowed around the finger, his tongue pressing against it. Eyes wide and unafraid, Parnasse came inside Jehan without a sound, barely a sigh. His thumb fell out of the burning hot mouth, leaving a wet trail on Jehan's jaw and throat and the boy-witch's eyes fluttered shut. For a few seconds, neither of them dared move.

At last, Jehan opened his eyes and smiled, falling over and hiding himself against Montparnasse who kissed his face and his hands, murmuring exchanged words of love and worship.

“- I couldn't live without you.

\- And without you, I couldn't love.”

 

* * *

 

“- No.

\- But Enjolras, it'll be-

\- Hugo, I won't sing, and that's that.”

 

Everyone turned to the two arguing men and an uncomfortable silence fell on the room. For Enjolras to call Courfeyrac by his given name, the matter had to be serious. Grantaire eyes went from one to the other in nervous wonder as he drank from his pint of beer.

“- Why?” asked Jehan, with a deep blush. Enjolras sighed, dragged a tired hand on his face and answered flippantly.

“- I sing very badly... I'm tone deaf.”

No one uttered a single word in response to the blatant lie. They all had heard Enjolras hum a song at one point or an other and it was always perfectly tuned. The blond man crossed his arms on his chest and glared at everyone, stately.

Combeferre blessedly broke the heavy silence.

“- Well... We have four tenors, five with Marius, two basses if Grantaire come with us and Bahorel and I are Baritones... If Eponine and Euphrasie come, we'll also have a soprano and an alto.” He looked at Enjolras. “Will you at least come with us?

\- I won't sing, Combeferre.

\- All right. You won't sing.” He said, placative. “But please, come. It'll be for a good cause, you know that. All the money will go the the association...

\- I know.” He looked more defeated by the second.

“- Plus, mind you...” Grantaire said carefully, “We need someone to direct us, and we all know you're knowledgeable in regard to classical music... So...”

Jehan and Feuilly nodded at the words and Enjolras raised his arms to the roof of the bar.

“- Very well! I'll come.” He pointed at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “But no more asking about singing and everything better go smoothly.”

The two students smiled and nodded.

“- Deal.”

 

 

Of course, thought Enjolras later that month, of course it didn't go smoothly. They had chosen a piece of liturgical music, much to Feuilly's delight. A miserere that include an important part for the higher voices. He should have known. He should have refused the piece and proposed something more masculine.

And here they were, barely two hour before the charity concert and Euphrasie was bed-ridden with an angina. And they had no replacement song. Of fucking course.

Combeferre was playing with his phone, postponing the inevitable call to the organizers of the event to tell them that they couldn't participate. Everyone looked so disappointed that Enjolras felt his heart tighten... They all had worked so hard to prepare for this. Combeferre sighed and started to compose the number when Enjolras's hand fell on his phone.

“- Enj?”

Enjolras was livid and tensed. He looked at Combeferre as if the man was the cause to all his distress.

“- I'll do it.

\- What?

\- I'll sing Euphrasie's part.”

Bossuet frowned.

“- But it's a soprano part... It's fairly high.

\- You think I don't know that? I was at every rehearsal.”

The room exploded in a concert of exclamations and surprise. Combeferre looked at Enjolras gravely.

“- Don't do it if you don't want to. We can still call and get out of it.

\- It's okay, I should have known it would come to this...

\- But can you even sing her parts?” Asked Joly, incredulous.

Enjolras nodded, irritated and Grantaire's hand found permanent residence over his own mouth.

“- I'm going to sing that damn piece, and no one is ever going to bring it up ever again, is that clear?” They all nodded.

In the corner, Grantaire could feel his guts turn to lead, burning their way up to his throat. He felt dread curling around his heart, as if something terrible and magnificent was about to happen.

 

 

The rehearsal went perfectly.

As soon as the piece was over, Grantaire ran out of the room, his hand once again over his mouth, his face pale.

“- Is he drunk?

\- No, he hasn't been drinking so far today...

\- I hope it's not contagious!” Said Joly.

\- Well, contagious or not,” retorted Courfeyrac, “We can not afford to lose a Bass!

\- I'll go check on him.” offered Feuilly. Jehan went with him.

 

They found Grantaire prostrated in the toilets, dry heaving in the porcelain bowl. Jehan bit his lips and sat by him, rubbing his back, while Feuilly grabbed some paper.

“- I can't go back there. I can't... Don't make me go back there...”

Feuilly and Jehan looked at each-other, lost about how to behave and the reason of Grantaire's breakdown.

“- Come on, R... What is this about? You're not having stage fright, are you?

Between two spasms, Grantaire managed to answer.

“- No... No I …” He rested his head against the porcelain, his eyes closed. Jehan though to himself that if the location was different, he could look like the marble statue of some ecstatic saint... His mouth was open and his face smooth, as if in awe of some miracle.

Jehan uttered a soft noise of understanding.

“- Oh... It's Enjolras.”

Grantaire nodded slowly and opened his eyes. Feuilly's expression was gentle when he knelt by his friends. He smiled and closed a fresh hand around Grantaire's neck.

“- This is what religious ecstasy feels like, my friend.

\- It feels like shit, Feu...”

Feuilly laughed and squeezed Grantaire's neck before releasing him.

“- Ha... But wouldn't you go back for more?

\- I'm undecided...” He looked at his two friends and laughed softly. “Figures you would be the one following me... You two are the only one believing in god in our whole group. Irony just slapped me in the face.”

 

Jehan smiled, blushed, and let out a laugh.

“- Come on, R... Would you like some water?

\- I'm not sure I can stand up, yet... I feel slightly faint.”

The poet nodded and Feuilly disappeared a few seconds, only to come back with a plastic goblet, filled with water. Grantaire took it between his shaking hands.

“- I feel stupid...

\- Don't. Everyone was surprised.

\- Yeah well, I'm the only one that felt the need to express my utter adoration by dry heaving in the toilets...” He closed his eyes and press the cup to his cheek.” God. His voice.”

 

There was no more words for a few minutes and Jehan stood up at last.

“- We need to go back to the others. They're surely worried.”

Grantaire nodded and with the help of Feuilly, was once again on his feet. He splashed a bit of water on his face in front of the mirror and settled himself with a deep breath. He was pale and shaken to his core. He blinked once, twice and moved to follow his friends out of the rest-room.

Once reunited with the rest of the group, he shrugged off their concern with some light words about stress and being nervous.

Soon enough, they let it go.

 

* * *

 

“- You know,” Jehan said, his mouth against Courfeyrac's neck, “It make sense that Enjolras hates his singing voice.”

Courfeyrac moaned a little and spread his hands on Jehan's back.

“- Does it?

\- Yes... He is painfully beautiful for a man. With his slender throat, his face, his lips... He even have those gorgeous hips. You know, one night I listened to R talking about Enjolras' hips for nearly two hours...”

Courfeyrac giggled in Jehan's hair and spread his hands on the poet's bare waist.

“- Was it enlightening?

\- Very much so.” Jehan laughed and nipped at his lover's lips. “My point being that combined with his looks, I understand that Enjolras is reluctant to sing. He looks like a Pre-Raphaelite angel...

\- That, and his mother.”

Jehan lift a curious eyebrow and looked at Courfeyrac, engaging him to go on.

“- Well... You know Enjolras, Combeferre and I goes a long way. His parents are pretty much conservatives and his mother is very devoted Christians. He went to church every week until he could diplomatically avoid it. I tell you this, but swear to keep it a secret. He would have my beating heart in his bare hands if he knew I'm telling you.” Jehan swore. “He was in the church choir until four years ago... When he got into _La Sorbonne_ , he came up to Paris with us, and stopped everything religious. I knew he was singing, but I never heard him before. I think only Combeferre knew.”

 

Jehan said nothing for a while and instead he let himself discover Courfeyrac's bare body with his hands.

“- I wish he wouldn't be ashamed of it. It was wonderful.

\- Ah well... There is nothing we can do about it.”

Jehan smiled and kissed him with his wicked tongue and plush lips. Courfeyrac said no more.

 

* * *

 

“- So... Are we going to talk about how you sleep with Courfeyrac _and_ Montparnasse?”

Jehan looked up to Grantaire and smiled gently.

“- How? Well... Usually not at the same time, but if you want more details, I can-

\- Jehan...

\- Yes.”

 

Grantaire pushed a lemonade glass in front of the poet and shook his head.

“- You're a wicked little thing, Jean Prouvaire.” He was smiling. “Do they know?

\- About?

\- The other one.

\- They do.” He sipped his lemonade. “But they're not too fond of each-other so far.

\- Are you hoping it'll change?

\- Of course. I love them both. I wish things were better between them but...” he shrugged “They just are so different.”

 

Grantaire's eyebrows moved up in amusement and he stole a sip from Jehan's glass.

“- Well... As long as everyone is happy with your little arrangement.

\- No one never says anything about Joly, Bossuet et Musichetta, why is it different with me?

\- Well, they are more of a threesome than a _ménage à trois_.

\- What? Bossuet and Joly are not lovers...

\- I don't know...” Grantaire grinned. “I think they secretly are.

\- Really? Nooo... Really?” Jehan wrinkled his nose and smiled. “Well, good for them!”

 

Grantaire laughed again and left Jehan to his lemonade and poetry reading, lying down on the wooden flooring, warmed by the early May afternoon sun. 

"- Grantaire...

\- Yeah?

\- Happy birthday.”

 

The art student stuttered in his walk and turned around to drape himself over Jehan with little finesse and press a kiss to his cheek.

“- You, Jehan Prouvaire, spinner of words, keeper of secrets, are a treasure. Thank you.”

Jehan blushed and Grantaire rolled over. They stayed side by side until the sun had set behind the windows and Grantaire had fallen asleep, still smiling, on the hard floor.

 


	2. Valses d'après-midi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a kiss for the Révolution.  
> In which friendship is stronger than broken teeth.  
> In which we dance at last.

“- Would you kiss me ?”

Enjolras looked up to Grantaire and frowned. He opened his mouth to answer but the man said again, hurriedly:

“- On the cheek. If you'd like...

\- Why?

\- Does a kiss need a reason?

\- I am not one to dispense my favours so readily.

\- It is my birthday.” Enjolras was startled.

“- Is it?

\- I'll only ask of you this small token. I simple kiss on my cheek.

\- What if I refuse?

\- Then I'll have to concede defeat and go away.

\- You wouldn't insist?”

At that, Grantaire smiled softly.

“- You cannot force affection. Especially toward the likes of me.”

 

Enjolras considered the words and let his thumb play with the edges of his book.

“- Is it really your birthday?

\- Yes it is!” He looked at his watch. “For yet a few hours!

\- How old are you now?

\- Twenty-five.”

 

Enjolras closed his book and looked at Grantaire with a disbelieving smile.

“- I can't believe your birthday falls on the start of the _Révolution_...”

Grantaire laughed, delighted.

“- It is a sign. If not a kiss, then surely a birthday wish. For the sake of the revolutionary in you.”

Enjolras looked a few more seconds at Grantaire's laughing face and, with a quick gesture, brought the man's head closer to his and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“- _Joyeux_ _anniversaire._ ”

Grantaire turned terribly red.

“- Ah... You really did it.” His smile was soft and he seemed slightly overwhelmed.

“- Well, was it not what you wanted?

\- Oh it was. Thank you.” He straightened, still smiling but (maybe for the first time) lowered chastely his eyes before Enjolras.

Enjolras's gaze lingered a mere moment before he went back to his book. For once, they sat in companionable silence, Grantaire seemingly lost in pleasant thoughts, for the rest of the evening. Around eleven, Enjolras turned to him once more.

“- If it's your birthday, why aren't you out at the Corinthe?

\- Well... I never celebrate my birthdays. In fact only Jehan knew that it was today. He must have seen it on my ID, when he stole it... And you know too, now, I guess.” He shrugged with a smile and looked at his hands. “But if it's an indirect way of telling me to go, I'll go in my room. It's okay.

\- No! No... You can stay. It's your flat after all.” Grantaire smiled at him and grabbed a book on the coffee table.

They read together until well after midnight.

 

* * *  
  


Grantaire was an alcoholic, and he was well aware of the fact. But as far as alcoholism went, he thought that he was no too bad. He never drank before seven in the afternoon and seldom got a hangover. So maybe he would drink three bottles of white wine and a few glasses of _Pontarlier_ and maybe if he was in the mood, an absinthe or a nice bottle of beer, (He had a weakness for a certain Briton dark beer he had tried out a few summer ago for the first time. It was hard to come by in Paris, though. So it stayed a holiday beverage) but he was not to badly gone that he would become violent or start acting weird if he was going a day without drinking. And he always ate a plateful of pastas and drank a big glass of water before going to bed.

Surely, he was not too bad.  
Surely.  
  


* * *

The bike rack was digging almost painfully into the tender inside of his tights, and his legs were slightly cramping from the effort of keeping them off the ground, but he couldn't care less.  
His forehead against Courfeyrac's back, Jehan closed his eyes. They were crossing Paris at high speed, a wild slalom between cars and trees.  
His hands gripped Courfeyrac's sides a little more tightly, secret fingers under the fabric, making love to the flesh they were touching. _Je t'aime_ , they said. _Je t'aime tellement_. Screaming, now, fighting to get under the skin, struggling against the cold and the wind. _Je t'aime_.

“- We're here, Jehan.”

( _He is reluctant to open his eyes. He puts his feet down when the bike stops but his hands are still in love, they cry, praying silently to not be parted from the warm skin under them._ )

“- Jehan?

\- I know.”

More silence. He didn't let Courfeyrac go, arms still around him.

“- Maybe we could ride a bit more? Five more minutes?

\- Montparnasse is watching us from his shop.” There was a smile in his voice.

“- I have known Parnasse for fourteen years now. Give me five more minutes of you.”

 He opened his eyes to look at Montparnasse through the glass and the taxidermist smiled at him gently, tilting his head and waving his hands in a shooing motion. Jehan flushed with pleasure and hold Courfeyrac more closely.  
Five minutes turned into ten, and a hundred kisses.

 

* * *

Bahorel was sitting on the floor, his shoulders bracketed by Feuilly's knees and Grantaire was on the armchair, intently focused on his game.

“- No, R... Shoot more to the right, you're gonna fall in the neurotoxine...

\- Yeah? I don't know. It could work.”

Feuilly shook his head.

“- It's too much on the left. Plus the cube is in the way.”

Grantaire groaned and did as he was told.

“- I swear, if I fuck up this level, I'm gonna be pissed. I've been shot so fucking much already.”

Bahorel snorted and they all stopped breathing a few seconds, enough for Grantaire to land on a platform and stand up in delight.

“- YES!!!

\- Well done!”

Feuilly and Bahorel started clapping and Grantaire fell back in his armchair.

“- I would be so dead if I had to do it for real. Or I would be Doug. And I would name my companion cube after one of you.

\- We feel honoured.

\- As you should.”

 

* * * 

It had been decided pretty fast, all things considered. They all wanted to go out of Paris for the summer, but going back to Toulouse appealed to no one.  
It was Grantaire who found a solution. His grand parents lived in Brittany near Quimper, but they had a second house in a small town by the sea on the other side of the department. It only took a phone call and the house was theirs for two weeks in august.  
Bossuet was ecstatic.  
“- You know,” he said, “I've never been out of Paris before. It's going to be my very first holiday!”

Enjolras, nearby, smiled at him. He was in the middle of studying for his incoming exams and looked exhausted.  
“- These two weeks are going to be very nice indeed.” he said very softly.

 

* * *

Jehan was not enjoying this. In fact, he was slowly but strongly starting to hate this.

As a matter of fact, he never put any thoughts in his clothes, (much to Montparnasse's despair.) but the look on his friend's faces this fated afternoon should have been the first sign that it was time to run fast and very far away from them.

Well, he said friends, but the term was loosely employed.

What kind of friends takes you against your will in some inane shopping spree across Paris under the guise of the must dreaded word: intervention.

He really was not enjoying this. And he said so to Bahorel, who had the guts to laugh at him and hand him what seemed to be the hundredth pair of pants... He glared at the man and glared some more at Joly and Courfeyrac who were there too. They all smiled and Jehan huffed in frustration before locking himself in the fitting room.

“- I don't see what was wrong with my old clothes.” He said aloud, for his tormentors benefit. “They were perfectly acceptable clothes. Doing their jobs in covering my skin from the vagaries of time and weather alike.” He grunted there, struggling to put the, frankly too tight, pair of jeans on his legs. “And what is wrong with this pair of jeans? I think it's not my size.

\- Jehan...” Interrupted Joly. “Don't be a killjoy and put the _dabn_ pants on!” he had a congested nose but was still very enthusiastic about the whole affair. “We're doing _zis_ for you. You _caddot_ keep on wearing _zos_ things you dare call clothes.

\- They really are terrible.” acquiesced Bahorel.

“- I would even say outrageous.” half sang Courfeyrac. “I know for a fact that you don't even like them. You wear whatever you find that fit the dictionary definition of clothes without bothering asking yourself if everything fits together. Well, darling cat, they don't.”

Jehan said nothing after that. Mostly because even he couldn't deny the truth in this. He just wasn't good with matching clothes, but he wasn't doing it on purpose!

This whole ordeal was a farce... He sighed.

“- Okay... I'm getting out. Brace yourselves.”

He was greeted with the most ridiculous faces and blushed terribly. Joly was faking tears of pride and clutching Bahorel's arm in overplayed emotion.

“- Oh... Our baby. He's a _growd-up, dow_.

\- Yes!” Bahorel rub Joly's back with a watery smile. “And soon enough he'll leave us to partake in some alternative _ménage à trois_ life style...” (Joly snickered.) Bahorel sighed and put a gigantic hand to his heart. “It pleases me so to see him defy the Church's narrow views on relationships.”

Jehan looked down to his bare feet and linked his fingers in embarrassment.

“- Just tell me if the pants meet your criteria of satisfaction.

\- I think you should get it in soft lavender.

\- No no, this one is nice, peacock is nice.

\- I'm partial to _bustard_ yellow...”

Jehan huffed and threw up his hands in despair.

They ended up buying the pants in all the colours they deemed acceptable for Jehan, plus an armful of sweaters, t-shirts and, despite Jehan's protests, a dozen pair of socks.

Courfeyrac kissed him softly on the cheek when they left the store, and gently nuzzled his neck.

“- You're so lovely, Jehan. All I wanted back inside was to ravish you out of your new clothes.”

Jehan gave him the evil eye but let himself be slowly and gradually petted into forgiveness.

It later turned out that seeing Jehan in new, fitting, colour coordinated clothes did things to Montparnasse. (He even nodded approvingly to Courfeyrac, who smiled back!)

All in all, maybe it wasn't so bad, thought Jehan the next morning.

When he went out for lunch, his socks were mismatched.

 

* * *

Joly squinted at Jehan and leaned toward Bahorel.

“- He is doing it on purpose. To spit us.”

Bahorel looked up toward the poet and half chocked on his beer.

“- _Nom de dieu... Le petit con!_

\- Well... To be fair, he _is_ wearing his new clothes.” Feuilly said lightly, badly concealing his smirk.

Courfeyrac, sitting by Combeferre, seemed resigned and shrugged at them, making a face of “what can you do”. He, however, turned to Jehan and asked.

“- Did Montparnasse let you go out like that?

\- Of course.

\- Was he happy about it?

\- Of course not.” Jehan smiled sweetly at him and buried his smug face in his new lettuce green scarf. Which was, interestingly enough, paired with a light blue t-shirt adorned with a black bird on the front, and the infamous mustard yellow jeans Joly had insisted on buying. His shoes were red and his socks a violent shade of purple.

Bahorel started weeping in his pint.

Feuilly was too busy cackling to comfort him.

 

* * *

Feuilly and Bahorel shared a flat in the 20tharrondissement, not too far from the cemetery, actually. Bahorel paid the rent and Feuilly paid for the groceries and the internet, it worked for them.

Feuilly was an artisan, he had a small shop where he would make gloves out of smooth leather or warm and shiny fabrics. Sometimes, for the sheer pleasure of it, he would use is marquetry skills and create the most delicate wooden fans.  
Sadly nowadays, a wooden fan was not a most fashionable artefact. He would sometimes get a special request for some history aficionado, sometimes a work of restoration, and even once, a request from a museum.

When Feuilly woke up this morning, he was in a foul mood. He went out of his room, barged in the kitchen and aggressively put water to boil on the stove. His jaw was tense as he stood there, vibrating with nerves.  
When Bahorel entered the kitchen, the look that Feuilly shot him was pure venom.

“- Woah... What's going on? What did I do?

\- Nicolas Bahorel, you are the worst friend. Simply the worst.

\- What but... What?”

Bahorel came closer and put a gentle hand on Feuilly's shoulder but the man bat him away. Bahorel insisted and grabbed Feuilly's neck in a strong grip.

“- Come on... Paul. Paul, what did I do?

\- I... I am so angry with you! You... I... I was in pain in the living room, I was in pain and I was crying out for you and you just stood there, looking at me like it was nothing and... “

Bahorel's eyes were wide open. He was not entirely sure what was going on.

“- And my bottom teeth kept growing and forcing themselves out of my gums, at the very back of my mouth and I couldn't... I couldn't close my jaw and it was so painful, and they were cracking and breaking and...

\- Paul...” His fingers softly sooth Feuilly's neck. “Did you have a nightmare?”

The red-haired man nodded and closed his eyes. His forehead fell on Bahorel's chest.

“- It was the worst. And you just stood there, like an arsehole. And I felt so lonely and scared.”

Bahorel took a deep breath to restrain his smile and gently pushed Feuilly away. He put his hands on the younger man's jaw and with a gentle thumb, opened his mouth.

Before Feuilly could possibly react, he had slipped a thumb between Feuilly's lips to touch the back molars. Suddenly, he grinned.

“- Nope. Everything's in order.”

Frozen on the spot, Feuilly glowered at Bahorel and closed his mouth and teeth around the offensive thumb. Bahorel grimaced.

“- Feu, your fox canine is digging painfully into my articulation...”

Feuilly arched a brow and opened his mouth again. Bahorel retrieved his spit-wet finger and stared at his flatmate.

“- Feu... You **literally** have the hottest mouth I've ever been in.”

Feuilly started laughing and slapped the other man's arm.

“- _T'es vraiment con, c'est pas croyable_.”

Bahorel grinned.

“- You love it.

 

* * *

“- I fucking love cheese.

\- You're so French.

\- Your _mom_ is so French!

\- What??? That's preposterous! _Your_ mom is so French!

\- Both your mothers are French. Everyone's mother is French!

\- Not Feuilly's.

\- Well, maybe she was. We don't know.

\- Parnasse's mother is Ukrainian.

\- Well, that's still a great majority of French mothers.

\- Why are we talking about this exactly?

\- The cheese.

\- Ha, man... I fucking love cheese.

 

* * *

“- Is that the Ink Spots?” Jehan asked, smiling from the sofa.

Grantaire nodded and danced toward Jehan, who closed his voluminous tome of erotic French poetry.

“- May I?” Jehan smiled a little more and took Grantaire's hand. “You can dance it as an Irish waltz. You remember this one?” The poet nodded and they slowly waltzed across the living room.

Grantaire had been a bit down these past days, “ _Enjolras me_ _dédaigne_ ” he would say after once more evening ending with Enjolras berating him for so and so, and Jehan was happy to see him smiling and dancing as was his usual way. Grantaire's hand on his waist was light as a kiss, and they smiled at each other.  
Grantaire had been the one to teach him to dance, a little known fact. The man was a very patient teacher and prone to good natured laughter during his lessons with Jehan.  
Sometimes he wished the others would see Grantaire like he saw him. Laughing at the window with Jehan, as they watched sparrows and tits on the window sill, battling for the seeds they left there, or starting an impromptu song coming from whatever opera bouffe he had seen recently with his booming voice in the kitchen while he opened oysters he claimed he had bought for nothing to some woman selling seafood very early in the morning on some unknown street. He would buy some dark bread and make the best vinaigrette to go with them (no white wine though, R only drank in the evening.) and they would eat in the midday sun, half out of the window, their feet on the tiny balcony, while Courfeyrac told them of some adventure in had partake in when he was young and wild. “Well, younger, at least” he would add between two bites of buttered bread. It made him smile softly.

“- I just want to start a flame in you heart.”

Jehan was startled by Grantaire deep voice crooning the words in his ear and laughed, rewarded by the pleased expression on Grantaire's face. He took a step back and applaud a little.

“- That was most charming. Thank you.

\- An other?

- _Allez!_ ”

They danced until the vinyl disc had no more afternoon waltzes to play for them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.   
> I don't know who you are, anonymous subscriber, but thank you very much! <3  
> Thank you also to all of you, readers and kudos/comments givers. It means a lot to me! =)

**Author's Note:**

> So... I found this AMAZING video with two counter tenors! Jaroussky again and Max Emanuel Cencic (who speaks english in the video).  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=woZmdvAhifM It is marvellous!!! This is a small documentary so you'll also see that they DO talk absolutely normally... (My dad was surprised to hear Jaroussky talk on the telly "Ha! He sounds normal!" ... ... Really dad? Really?)  
> Counter-tenors are the most similar natural voice to those of 18th century castrats nowadays.
> 
> Anyway, I'd like to know if it pleased you or not, so please, don't hesitate to leave a comment if you want to. =)


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